


atop the rubble

by lizzledpink



Category: Tales of Xillia
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Light BDSM, Minor Violence, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-09
Updated: 2015-06-09
Packaged: 2018-04-03 13:36:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4102852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lizzledpink/pseuds/lizzledpink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>i would go to the end of the world for you</em>, gaius thinks, but does not say, because he wouldn’t, couldn’t, not really.</p>
            </blockquote>





	atop the rubble

**Author's Note:**

> I literally refuse to accept Presa’s canon age. Or even write it here. She’s at least 27, bare minimum, 29 preferably, if they’re going to put her in that disaster of a canon outfit. Please note that I love Agria, and she's only excluded from this fic because she is a teenager and I am not putting her anywhere near even remotely erotic stuff. Anyway, on with the show.

**i.**  

people’s opinions of jiao are very polarized. 

when meeting allies, he greets them with a big grin, a big handshake, and makes a big impression. those who have known him as an enemy have seen him crush skulls with barely a flicker of thought, brutalizing one soldier’s kneecap with his hammer and, with no hesitation, fluidly pounding another soldier into the ground. his tribe he protects fiercely, and though they have seen both sides of him, they also see him as something more.

in any case, strange as it is to say, he ends up on a pedestal, a field’s distance out of reach. 

not so here. 

gaius never views him in such a lofty light, and as gaius does, the chimeriad ever follows suit. 

presa pulls him down to eye level, captures his gaze, and presses her lips to his nose, a coy smile climbing up the tips of her mouth, clever fingers creeping upward just to the side of his throat. she has him right where she wants him, here, now, wherever, however. she doesn’t ask for his attention, she demands it, and jiao does as he’s bid. yet, she keeps it light. there is no disappointing presa. there is only rising to meet her, then descending as they fall into place where they want to be.

wingul kisses him on doorsteps, stairs, perches on railings, hides in alcoves built into dark castle walls and beckons him with a quiet word. some would joke about compensating for something; jiao is aware that there is no need. wingul’s bang flutters against his cheek, almost coquettish, and jiao stirs, invited. wingul is too clever, ever keeping him on his toes, even when it seems like wingul should be the one lifting his heels to touch him.

gaius isn’t the type. gaius brushes past him, shoulder to shoulder, or takes his hand and presses a swift kiss to it, almost courtly, though he never lingers. in private gaius presses him down into the bed, hips first, and jiao knows gaius would never elevate him. he’s the king, and though gaius is the one pinning him down, it’s gaius who ends up treated like one, gasping for breath long before jiao does. 

they each know jiao is passionate, caring at heart, bestowing solidarity, affection, sincerity where each of them lacks it. he is the one who feeds the stray cats and takes the poisonous spiders outside. the anger, violence he carries they know he controls, even if sometimes, he himself has doubts. what blood they have seen on his hands is mirrored on theirs. they would die for jiao. even gaius, if he had the luxury.

they would kill, too.

**ii.**

the rats have another, more unpleasant name in some parts of rieze maxia. 

presa’s heard it before, though recently, none have dared hurled it in her direction very recently. here, she belongs, she is respected, and those who have known her by another name will call her by her new one or find themselves flung out of auj oule, half-drowned and likely singed around the edges. 

she keeps her weapon close at hand, refines it, grows into it. she ditches the old look and reforms herself as a new one, fitting for the “fang,” blending revealed skin and mewling kitty and mystic fox to draw them in and trap them in a cage of their own making. hatred is a double-edged blade, but she rarely cuts herself on the edge anymore, and when she does, she ensures that her enemies end up cut far deeper. 

jiao has a power she doesn’t understand. he looks at her the same way whether she’s in a tight, racy suit or a loose, unflattering sweater. it’s only when she’s undressed - no, when she  _undresses_  - that he sweeps her up, with eyes and arms alike, and gazes at her with no shame, only awe. she’s grown to like his beard tickling at her chin. she teases him sometimes, gently, and only after, about how it all went there instead of his head.

gaius hardly gives her time to think. he has a full arsenal of weapons - legs, tongue, fingers, arms, chest, lips, and more - and he makes full use of them, keeping her attention this way and that. he tells her she looks beautiful and he means it, simply, truthfully, completely. it’s never in question, altered, dirtied, awed, it is fact, it is appreciated. she returns the favor. neither of them need to be told they are beautiful - perhaps that is why they say it anyway, like saying it between them gives the words meaning anew, bleached of the meanings that came before them.

wingul reaches out with one finger and dabs bright red cherry sauce on the tip of her nose, knowing perfectly well that she’ll be angry with him for it. she “trips” and knocks a bowl of flour into his face, his hair, his nose. he sneezes. she likes him best when he kisses her out of anger, not seduction, and luckily, he seems to see it the same way. they bait each other until he cups her face, fingers pressed firmly but gently into her jaw, getting flour on her face now, ruining her make-up, again. she slips a leg between his and moves closer, planning to ruin him and let him ruin her some more. 

presa has no need to worry over those who criticize her past or her bearing. her past has brought her here, and here, gaius motions to jiao and captures her arms in his grasp, restraining, but only because she wants him to, and because wingul whispers in her ear, and she says yes.

**iii.**

it’s a terrible thing to think, but truthfully, sometimes wingul is glad that his father is dead, killed by gaius’ hand. 

from what he remembers, if his father saw him now, he would call him a disgrace, and wingul would take the insult gracefully, stoically, calm in the knowledge that he knows his path. he was born to be great, his father would argue,  _dun'stiumun'du tii diorun,_ but wingul knows that is not his place. birthright has little meaning in the future he chases now, throwing all his brilliance and power behind gaius as he paves the way towards it. 

but he’s not calm, always. and he knows himself well enough to know that, alone to face the eyes of a crowd of respected elders, all telling him he has failed, that he would stand, face their scrutiny, and (that night) sink against a wall, shaking. 

gaius props him up when he goes weak-kneed, slumps, slides from stiff uprightness into boneless vulnerability. it’s a strange trade-off, he’s thought before. wingul supports gaius entirely in the public eye, but wingul always feels that it is the other way around in private. he feathers kisses to gaius’ jawline, thankful, welcome in ways his words don’t always express, and feels gaius chuckle against his chest, accepting, until he finds his spine again and finds another way to pay him back.

presa teases him, she’s said, because she likes the way his face looks when it breaks out of the plaster. it’s insulting, in a way, but comforting. she likes to make him break face, and he likes not to, but when he does, there is no shame in it - his punishment is a sweet kiss and a press of her forehead to his, until the anger melts away and he finds himself smiling. he doesn’t know how she does that, entices it out of him by coming from the other direction, wipes it off his face again with a hand slipping up through a slit in his shirt.

jiao challenges him, a little. it takes wits to get the upper hand on jiao, wits, and forethought, and not a small amount of luck. careful planning, versatile tactics. wingul likes to make him come apart when he has the chance, as he can with any of them, truthfully, but jiao always makes it worth the effort. wingul talks strategy on a chilly, stony balcony and jiao stops him with a hand on his shoulder, cutting him off in the middle of the word, and jiao points to the horizon, reminds him that the sunset lights the snow-topped roofs of kanbalar perfectly at this time of day. wingul halts, pauses, and closes his eyes.

there are more important things, wingul believes, than being at the top, than being the best, than being number one. there is a rule of architecture he once read about that applies here: no structure can be sturdy if it does not rest upon a solid foundation. and wingul is a key point of that foundation, and below him, he sets more foundation in place, extending armies like his own arms to encompass all of auj oule, and perhaps someday, beyond - when the structure can support such a distance. 

wingul follows, and is followed, and he can imagine no greater purpose than this. 

**iv.**

it is different for gaius, because he is king.

as a person he would die if it meant they would survive him. as a king, he already knows the odds that he will be left alone in the end, standing atop the rubble they leave in their wake, the aftermath of the eruptions that keep him seated on his throne. 

he is king because he is the strongest, and they weaker than him, and others weaker still, all the way down the line. but he doesn’t look down upon them. he doesn’t see them as less. they are his to carry.

and yet, they carry him through so much. 

presa, sly and ethereal, open and secretive, kind and unforgiving. 

jiao, steadfast and light-hearted, dedicated and withdrawn, solid and unpredictable.

wingul, mercurial and still, gloomy and idealistic, gentle and passionate.

he is always king, with them or without them. there is no divide between gaius as king and gaius as person, he does not become less responsible in their presence. but he is free to give a little more of himself. free to take what they offer him. free to take them all into his room and keep them there, just for a while, while the winds whistle through cracks in old mortar, as all the town is snowed in and there’s no business to be done.

 _i would go to the end of the world for you_ , gaius thinks, but does not say, because he wouldn’t, couldn’t, not really. he only presses his hand to jiao’s chest, over his heart, and thinks it. skirts his lips over wingul’s neck and imagines it. tucks an arm around presa’s waist and hopes she feels it somewhere in the action, the things that he, the king, will never do. 

they fall for him, and they fall for him, as he knew they would (but he also prayed it would happen years down the road, not so soon, not now, not for this). one by one, they give everything.

he stands on the throne, the shining symbol of a united rieze maxia, as responsible for their deaths as he was for their lives. 

and he is still king. 

he will rule a world they would be proud to see. 

**Author's Note:**

> “Dun'stiumun'du tii diorun” means “destined to rule” in Long Dau.


End file.
